Rosemary for Remembrance

by Christine Arness

  She stood in a freshening breeze and fought against the dark cloud, but at last succumbed, abandoning the half-filled basket and stumbling into the house to seek refuge in her rocking chair. Helen eased her aching body onto the cushioned seat and let herself drift back…

  A young heart pumped warm blood through her veins. Quill moved under Helen with assurance, powerful muscles bunching and flowing. The night breeze caressed her cheeks and whipped tangled hair across her eyes. As the freedom of youth returned to the earthly confines of her body, Helen began to rock in rhythm with the mare’s steady pace.

  But terror pounced without warning. Horse and rider approached a cliff—and below the crumbling edge of the drop-off crouched the monster who’d troubled Helen for many years. This time she could see glowing dots of light and hear a wailing of agonized voices, a chorus of the damned.

  Clenching her teeth until her jaw ached, Helen was powerless to stop her past self from guiding Quill to the top of the incline. A woman’s anguished voice rose up to shatter the peace of the night wind. Young Helen urged the horse forward and looked over the crumbling ridge…

  Julia sat at an inlaid rosewood desk and addressed envelopes with copperplate handwriting, pausing only to jot a note to call the catering firm to make sure the chef was preparing hot mustard sauce for the Gulf shrimp.

  She sighed, reflecting that her executive abilities were wasted in planning parties while Austin hid in his workshop and carved waterfowl. Could anything be more humiliating than having people discover that her brother, the head of the family, made ducks! This party was essential—the locals must be courted if Austin was to win over the elite of the state bar association. Her pen moved in smooth strokes as her thoughts ran on.

  If Austin had shown a spark of ambition, he’d have been nominated for the state supreme court. If she managed to pluck the appropriate strings, that appointment might still be forthcoming. The frustration of being the power behind an unwilling throne caused her to grit her teeth. If only Father had sent her to college instead of wasting a Harvard education on Austin.

  And if things weren’t at a delicate enough stage, that woman had unsettled her brother with the remembrance of Rosemary. He’d never forgotten that wretched tramp, although he tried with a series of affairs carried on behind Julia’s back. Any women she considered unsuitable candidates for marriage were ruthlessly discarded when she stepped in to choke off the relationship.

  The pen paused as she read the name on the invitation she had just completed. With a flash of ruby fire, her fingers shredded the buff envelope. The fragments drifted down onto the Aubusson carpeting, and her right hand moved up to touch her throat as if to ward off approaching evil.

  Chapter 23

  Abigail stared at the ceiling of her darkened bedroom. Her temples throbbed, and the pain, combined with the emotional upheaval of the evening, kept sleep at bay. Her solution to the insomnia that plagued her after Michael’s death had been sleeping pills, the capsules numbing the constant companion of grief. But Sylvia had marched her into the bathroom and confiscated the pills after discovering that Abigail was also taking them during the day.

  “You’re turning into a zombie. If you get this prescription refilled, I’ll dissolve our partnership,” Sylvia had threatened.

  “Without the pills, I can’t sleep. I just think about Michael.” Abigail watched in despair as Sylvia dumped the pills in the toilet bowl and flushed them away.

  “The ability to grieve, to remember, is what sets us apart from lower life forms—like my ex-husband.” She hugged her unresponsive partner. “Remember Michael. Don’t keep him locked away inside of you.”

  Remember Michael. Remember Rosemary. Remember Olivia. What had Ross done to the poor woman? Abigail shuddered, her imagination supplying the details.

  Moonlight filtering through the opaque curtains at her bedroom window kept total darkness at bay as Abigail sat up and hugged her knees. The realization struck her that she’d deliberately goaded Ross, waiting for a glimpse of the monster who’d smashed his father’s jaw and tried to strangle the man in the bar.

  Ross had taunted her about her inability to open up, to “turn out her own emotional pockets.” His words had hit home; try as she might, she couldn’t remember ever having a soul-baring discussion with Michael. Their relationship had been based on hot, satisfying sex, sweat-soaked sheets and tangled limbs. But Michael had wanted more, she knew that now.

  Thinking back, she could recall subtle indications that he was searching for a level of communication beyond the physical one they enjoyed. She could even hear Michael joking about how her busy schedule reminded him of his mother, who had never found the time to come to his Little League games.

  That remark had been a signal of a problem and she’d ignored it, couldn’t even remember how she’d responded. And Michael’s insistence on having a child—had he believed a baby would enhance their relationship, provide companionship, or save the marriage? In her rush to build up her law practice, she had shut him out, never seeking conversation more probing than a recital of the events of their days. Even the nature of her profession had conspired against them—she spent hours listening to the confidences of clients without once being forced to give in return.

  A dry, almost dusty taste filled her mouth, as if ashes coated her tongue, and she saw with piercing clarity that her marriage to Michael had been doomed. The erosion had already begun; sooner or later he would have turned to another woman to find the complete communion he had sought to achieve with Abigail. She willingly gave him her body but had not allowed him to share any other part of her life. That statue he’d purchased that reminded him of her had been an unconscious revelation of his feelings—beautiful body but no soul, the true essence of the woman of mystery, cloaked by long, concealing strands of hair.

  Had she ever unbarred the door to allow anyone into her life? “Abby’s such a secretive little thing—I never know what she’s thinking,” she’d overheard her mother complaining to her father. And a ten-year-old Abigail had been proud of her ability to shut her mother out and had continued to hug her cherished dreams to herself.

  The pattern had continued throughout her teenage years and beyond, a deep river of passion, hopes, and fears flowing below a poised veneer. Michael had tried to break through to the woman he’d glimpsed beneath the smooth mask, but he had run out of time.

  Rosemary. Abigail felt a dawning empathy with the girl who’d died before Abigail was born, a woman who also refused to surrender her inner soul to others. Rosemary had thus condemned herself to be viewed only through lenses tinted by the darkness of other’s self-perception.

  Abigail couldn’t shake the conviction that the theft of the dress was the key to unlocking the riddle of Rosemary’s conduct the night of the dance. According to Flora, Rosemary had kept aloof from home life after their father’s departure, but the implied hostility in shattering her sister’s hopes seemed designed to sever the last familial bond, a step in a process to take Rosemary far from Lincoln City. Discover who else was involved in the plan or knew of her intentions and the identity of the person who stopped Rosemary’s bid for freedom might be revealed.

  The interviews had left Abigail with a growing conviction that Rosemary evoked only extreme emotions—no neutral responses. Each person seemed somehow obsessed; the girl’s tragic appeal even reached out from the grave to grip Abigail’s imagination. Witness how the strong-minded Terrell had been unable to refrain from noting the girl’s partners or watching her slip away with Oliver.

  The mystery of the pearl necklace was solved. A lovesick Austin had given her the jewelry, perhaps to celebrate their engagement. Abigail held her breath as she followed this train of thought. An engagement—or an elopement. A planned elopement explained the theft of the dress—she wanted to appear a radiant bride. It also explained her confidence in the face of Julia’s enmity and Austin dancing with Rosemary in the teeth of his sister’s opposition.

  But what had gone
wrong? Instead of embarking on a honeymoon, Rosemary’s lifeless body had ended up sprawled in a country lane while Austin endured a living death under Julia’s control. Despite Ross’s contention, Abigail was convinced the death was no accident. Poor Rosemary had been so close to escaping the clutches of the town, only to die within arm’s length of a dusty cornfield.

  Abigail switched on the lamp, removed the herb book from the drawer of the bedside table, and looked up rosemary. The name came from the Latin and meant dew of the sea. Shakespeare’s poor mad Ophelia had mentioned it wistfully, pleading, “Pray, love, remember.” In the past, the herb had been used to adorn the heads of brides and a superstition existed that tapping a fresh sprig of rosemary against the finger of a loved one would insure capturing his affection.

  Tears filled Abigail’s eyes. The stolen dress never served as a bridal gown; Flora’s creation became Rosemary’s shroud. Pray, love, remember.

  Michael. He, too, demanded remembrance. Abigail couldn’t stop thinking she had failed him, had never known the man she’d married.

  A crash. The book slipped out of Abigail’s grasp. Reaching for her robe lying at the foot of the bed, she jumped up. The noise had come from the front of the house.

  At the doorway of her bedroom, she paused and listened, but heard nothing. The malicious litany of the herbal bouquet ran through her mind: hate, misfortune, hostility. But with her hand on the phone, she hesitated, unwilling to call the police over nothing more menacing than the clatter of a trash-can lid.

  Abigail tiptoed to the front door and peered out. Moonlight bathed the deserted street and lawns with silver light. She drew in a lungful of cool night air and let it out slowly. A dog must have tipped over a trash can, she decided, beginning to swing the door shut.

  A dark gash marred its white paint. Shards of a clay pot, clumps of dirt, and spiked plants with tiny flowers washed white by moonlight covered the doorstep. She bent to pick up one of the plants and studied the greenery lying across the palm of her hand.

  She realized suddenly why the stalk and leaves seemed so familiar. She’d just traced the outlines of this plant on the page. Abigail held a broken sprig of rosemary.

  Dale of Dale’s Nursery confirmed her suspicions. “Yep, that’s rosemary—notice the pale blue flowers? Let me guess, you want to know if I sold this to someone. Lady, I don’t tattoo an ID number on my plants or tag ’em for migration records.”

  “I have to know who threw—gave this to me.” Abigail shivered, although the air was humid and the sun warmed her head and shoulders. “Perhaps that elderly woman in the veil came back?”

  He was shaking his head. “Nope. And I don’t sell potted rosemary—just cuttings.”

  Abigail dodged a lime-dusted wheelbarrow with Adam at the helm as Dale scratched his elbow with earth-stained fingers, apparently reviewing the past week’s transactions.

  He shook his head again. “Sorry, lady. If they pay cash, I don’t get a name. Remember, this ain’t a gun shop—you don’t have to display a driver’s license to buy dill or basil.”

  As Abigail drove to the office, her anxiety was tinged with a faint edge of relief. The shattered pot was concrete evidence tying the assault on her front door to her investigation, taking the herbal bouquet from a personal attack to a professional level—proof that someone wanted to discourage her from probing into the past. A roll of undeveloped film in her purse on the seat beside her contained shots of the herbal chart, the wilted bouquet, and the gashes on her front door.

  The sight of the courthouse looming on the right elicited thoughts of Ross and his snowman sketches. Perhaps the circles represented himself, Olivia, and a dead baby. She shuddered away from the horrific triangle and concentrated on unmasking her enemy. The use of herbs to send a warning might be Belle’s calling card.

  In the office, as she caught up on some files, Abigail wondered who stood to lose the most if the identity of Rosemary’s killer was revealed. The driver of the car, of course. And if the driver were dead or missing, such as Spider, a relative might conspire to cover up the crime—perhaps a grandson? Abigail pressed her palms against her closed eyelids and tried to visualize the photograph of Spider and Rosemary. No one in the case bore the stamp of Spider’s coarse features, no one had even expressed a shred of regret over his disappearance.

  Ross had suggested that Julia and Austin denied knowing Rosemary out of a fear of scandal tainting his candidacy. If Austin had been engaged to the dead woman, the trial of the murderer would certainly bring him under a media spotlight. And Belle had once been a maid in the Kyle home—where did her loyalties lie?

  Abigail unbent a paper clip. Thinking about Belle brought her to Quincy, a very well-informed gardening assistant who perhaps assisted in other ways—such as hurling a pot of rosemary against a person’s front door. She didn’t buy his explanation that Belle babbled under the influence of liquor—couldn’t imagine the two of them sharing a bottle and tales of the good old days.

  She gave up on the file in front of her and opened her interview notebook. The circle around Oliver Payton’s name caught her eye. Oliver, the man who shared Rosemary’s final dance and led her out of the town hall, the last time she was seen alive.

  The phone book had a listing for an Oliver Payton but she got a busy signal. She walked out to the reception area. “Please keep trying this number, Debbie. Put the call through when you make the connection.”

  The receptionist accepted the piece of paper and glanced at the number. “If you want to talk to someone in the office at Shady Acres, you’ve got the wrong number. This one is for residents.”

  “Shady Acres? It’s supposed to be an Oliver Payton’s number—I’m sure I copied it correctly.”

  “My grandmother’s a resident at Shady Acres Nursing Home and I have to call this number to talk to her—all calls are funneled through a main switchboard.” Debbie appeared to be searching for her reflection in the opalescent polish on her fingernails. “By the way, Paul mentioned that he wants to see you when you’ve got a minute.”

  “Nursing home.” Abigail bit her lip. “I hope this doesn’t mean Oliver has slipped mentally.”

  “They’re all gaga in those places,” Debbie said with the callous cheerfulness of the young as she repaired a minute chip in the gloss on the nail of her pinkie. “My grandma thinks I’m dating Clark Gable—she’s always bugging me to bring him by to see her.”

  Abigail went into Paul’s office. Her boss gave an audible sigh of relief at the sight of his colleague’s modestly striped skirt and jacket. Paul was constructing a house of cards; crumpled yellow sheets from a legal pad dotted the floor like enormous dandelions, an indication he was working through an abstract problem by concentrating on a tangible one.

  His summons had nothing to do with the nuances of the law, however. “Do you plan to attend the Kyles’ little shindig?”

  She sank into the client’s chair. “I wasn’t invited.”

  “A messenger dropped off my invitation this morning.” His long, thin fingers deftly tented another three cards; she had often wondered if he’d ever played the violin.

  Abigail had already come to the conclusion that Austin must be confronted again and the knowledge that she had been excluded from the party only strengthened her determination. “Perhaps my name was inadvertently left off the bar association roster.”

  He looked up, squinting over the edifice of cards. “Must be an oversight, unless she’s trying to keep the pretty girls away from Austin.”

  “Or doesn’t want me asking him any more questions about Rosemary. What’s the occasion?”

  “The occasion? Has to do with the vacancy on the state supreme court—I suspect Julia’s sticking her toe in to see if the water’s warm enough to justify throwing her brother off the dock of retirement.”

  “And you’re going to be there to lend moral support?”

  “No, my wife and I are taking my in-laws out for their anniversary. However, it’s important we have an
emissary respond to Queen Julia’s royal command. Will you go?”

  Her employer was handing her another chance to talk to Austin. “I love a lively party.” She smiled in anticipation.

  Paul winked. “Best foot forward, Abby, but don’t drag our eminent jurist to the dungeon for questioning.”

  He blew until the tenuous structure of cards folded, collapsing in upon itself at a leisurely pace. She watched the paperboard rectangles tumble in swooping arcs, aware that this was Paul’s convoluted method of issuing a visual warning. Disturb the uneasy balance existing between the present and the past, pluck the flimsy web spanning memory and truth and someone’s house of cards could come tumbling down.

  Chapter 24

  Quincy’s lean fingers grasped Abigail’s arm as he leaned into the car. She accepted his assistance without demur, aware of the hardness of muscles toned by manual labor when he drew her forth to stand beside him, hip to hip.

  “Well, well, look who’s here.” He slammed the door of the car and turned back to Abigail. “Just can’t stay away, can you, sweet thing? What is the attraction? This beautiful body? My smile? My charm?”

  She freed the hand that he’d raised to his lips. “None of the above, I’m afraid.”

  “How about a picnic in the herb garden? I promise to protect you from any bees who might want to sip the nectar of your lips.”

  “I’m here on business, Quincy.”

  He touched her mouth with a gentle finger and traced a path down her throat toward the vee in her blouse. Sunglasses concealed his eyes, but the cocky grin had been replaced by a softer curve of the lips and she realized up until now she’d been shown the colorful, sharp-edged cartoon version of Quincy.